


Gentle touches

by ValeCimmerian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValeCimmerian/pseuds/ValeCimmerian
Summary: Crowley finds himself jealous of every thing that touches Aziraphale





	Gentle touches

As a (fairly) good demon should, Crowley liked to think he knew all about the different sins, and although Acts Incurring Minor Wrath were his speciality, he had been known to dabble in every other available sin. With current affairs as they were, there wasnt much in pride, greed, gluttony or sloth, the technological advancements and humanity of the world doing much of that for him. Lust was always an enjoyable endeavour, though recently not something Crowley got much satisfaction out of. Envy however, was something he tried to steer away from. He had found that once you set the seeds of envy in a person, it grew into an uncontrollable jealousy that was the source of crimes of passion, of many a brutal murder. While Crowley wasn't a good person, he didn't think the human race needed help hurting one another, so he usually left envy alone. 

Throughout the time he had spent with Aziraphale, Crowley had learnt that there was as much said in the silences and spaces between them as in their conversation, a kind of illicit communication of all the yearnings and hopes an angel and demon should never even have, let alone for one another. Once the Apocalypse had passed, once they had faced the ultimate punishment for one another, there was an unspoken barrier lifted and Crowley began to be hyper-aware of the space around him and his angel, like glowing bubbles that would intersect with a pleasant warmth. In the passing of a wine bottle, fingertips would brush (both would blush and pretend not to), in the opening of a door shoulders would brush past and linger. In sitting down at a table, both would go to pull out the same chair and hands would be on the others (each time Crowley badly disguised the gasp, and each time a wave of positivity hit Aziraphale like a truck). 

And so it became commonplace. Fingers would linger when they possibly shouldn't without excuse or acknowledgement. Crowley tried not to notice it, but he felt his heart swell and his body involuntarily lean in to the contact. He craved more. He wanted to fully hold Aziraphale's hand, to envelope his torso, to hold skin against skin just to see what it felt like, to see if the breathlessness continued or if it could heighten with greater contact. 

Aziraphale tried his best to ignore the touches. He didn't want to yearn for his best friend, didnt want to feel that cursed warmth flow between himself and his demon at the simplistic brushing of innocent skin on skin (after the baths at Rome, the piles of sweat-slicked bodies there, it shouldn't bother either of them as it did). There was a concerted attempt on his behalf to not touch Crowley at all, but something magnetic seemed to pull them into each other's presences. Aziraphale was in a state of mental turmoil over this, sat each night after Crowley had left, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and a glass of Scotch clutched in his hand, head resting in the other. He chased himself in circular arguments of right and wrong and heaven and hell and all these complicated alignments, but when it came down to it he was afraid. He was afraid of getting it wrong in any way, and losing a friend. The only friend he had, the only one who could possibly understand the love he held for this earth. 

So, Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of- diverted that attention. He started allowing customers in while Crowley was sprawled on his sofa, shaking their hands and escorting them out with a gentlemanly hand hovering over their back's when they decided to leave, handing over slips of paper with recommendations for eccentric academics with a careless grasp. He started being friendlier with waiters and chefs, offering the creators of particularly exquisite meals a handshake with both hands, clasped around one another. With every little brush of contact, it meant less and less to Aziraphale until he could stand their brushes and meetings in the middle without the burning tension that had been between them. Crowley grew more sullen and irritable. 

All he could see were hands on his angel, human hands dirtying the wondrous glowing aura of his angel, others hands where his should be. With each little touch Crowley hissed a little, sulking at Aziraphale, and wondering at the careless manner in which he touched others. Did that mean the moments with Aziraphale were nothing? Did it mean the warmth from that glance of skin on skin, the breathlessness that shook his body, that feeling that maybe he might not be so cast out and alone, was a lie? All one sided, all in his head? So Crowley retreated too, into a seething anger and yes- jealousy. A seething jealousy and all these people who had no right to be touching his angel until his every fibre was concentrated on holding that back and remaining outwardly suave and apathetic. 

Of course, to one who had been around Crowley as long as Aziraphale did, that bubbling jealousy was only very thinly veiled. Crowley was good enough that Aziraphale couldnt quite tell what it was, having almost successfully pushed away the memories of those moments where they touched and the world held them still. So the situation continued, Aziraphale being friendly and Crowley simmering beyond, until the demon did something different.

Crowley started hanging around the shelves where Aziraphale stood, or rather lurking. Like most demons, he had lurking down to a fine art. He loomed over the angel, a dark hissing shadow promising even greater darkness to the humans that turned shivering from a bewildered Aziraphale before he could even shake their hand 'hello'. Aziraphale turned around with a hurt look in his eyes.   
'Crowley, what in hell's name did you do that for?'  
'You don't really want them to buy your books.' Crowley was really hissing now, clearly out of control.   
'I enjoy the changing company.'  
'Don't be stupid, angel.' Crowley began to advance with fiercely burning look in his eye, pinning Aziraphale against the bookshelves without even touching him.   
'I.. I'm not quite sure I know what you mean my dear, I.. ' the angel was stuttering and stumbling over his sentences, eyes roving and unsure where to land, hands sliding up to sit, palm up, by his head, and oh Crowley was quite close now. Aziraphale realised at some point that his face was flushed and flustered not entirely from fear alone. Crowley inched closer. 'Really, dearest, I, uh..' and Aziraphale was overwhelmed with all the spaces he was not touching his demon, all the gaps between them, so easily closed.   
'You know what you did, angel.' Crowley practically growled and Aziraphale felt the rumbling in his own chest. 'Let those... humans touch you, their mortal hands on you when you won't.. when you..' at some point Crowley stopped frowning so deeply, stopped hissing and shook a little.   
'What is it dearest?' Aziraphale asked softly, still not quite able to move. Crowley smirked suddenly, clicked his fingers to remove the glasses from his suddenly open and vulnerable eyes, and leaned around to speak millimetres from Aizraphale's ear, still not touching him.  
'Letting them touch you when you know full well you're mine.' And on that word, a snake-like forked tongue came out to just gently lick the side of Aziraphale's neck. He gasped, just slightly, but the movement was enough to align their bodies along every curve and crevice, and Crowley's eyes flickered closed. Aziraphale smiled and pressed a small kiss to the side of Crowley's neck. A deep blush flushed up the side of his neck to flood his cheeks and Aziraphale felt not a burst but a glow, a constant heat made of warmth and love and affection so strong he could no longer ignore it.   
'I'm sorry my dear Crowley, I didnt.. ah. I didn't know you felt that way.' Aziraphale let his hand fall to where Crowley's was. 'But I hope this makes up for it, a little.' He squeezed Crowley's hand, and the demon buried his head in his angel's shoulder (trying and failing to hide his wide smile).  
'Just don't let go.' A muffled voice came from somewhere in Aziraphale's jacket.   
'I wouldn't dare.' Aziraphale laughed, just a little, and pressed his lips to the top of his demon's head.


End file.
